by Traci Lords
We went to the wrap party that night together. Everyone was already there. We broke the news to Brook’s mom and dad, and I could see Pat breathe deeply. Then she just hugged us. His father signed my script: “To Traci, the girl who stole my son away,” and we all started crying.
Many tears and several martinis later, the cast and crew of John Waters’s Cry-Baby said good-bye.
36
Home Sweet Home
Twenty-four hours later I stood in front of the home Scott and I rented in Woodland Hills, surrounded by luggage. As the taxi roared away, I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the worst. I was tired from the early-morning flight and dreaded facing my scorned ex. I hadn’t spoken to him since his unexpected visit to Baltimore but things were clearly over between us. Earlier that week I’d left word on his machine that I’d be arriving this afternoon to collect my things. I’d gotten no response and I had no idea what I was walking into.
I left my pile of luggage by the garage and struggled with the front gate. He must have been waiting for me because the moment I got in, he stormed through the front door, calling me every name in the book. I kept my voice calm, not wanting to fuel the fire. I told him I was sorry to upset him and that all I wanted to do was collect my things and go, but he tried to snatch the keys from my hand and said I wasn’t stepping foot in his house. His fury scared me. I turned around and walked quickly to the street.
He laughed, slamming the door behind me.
I stood there on the curb for a minute, shaking and trying to decide what to do next. I knew he was angry, and maybe even genuinely hurt by my relationship with Brook, but we were grown-ups. This wasn’t the way adults were supposed to act. At twenty-one years of age, it was finally clear to me that certain types of behavior just weren’t acceptable. I fumed as I thought of all the money I’d spent on rent for this house while I’d been away on location. Not to mention the countless dollars I’d given him for child support for his son. Forget it, pal, I thought. We’re even. I’m out of here.
But first I needed my car.
The next few minutes moved at warp speed as I ran for the garage and punched in the code. My red convertible was right where I’d left it, and I jumped into the driver’s seat. Throwing the car into reverse, I sped backward out of the garage as Scott came running after me like a crazed lunatic. My heart felt like it was going to burst from my chest as I squealed around the corner, home free.
I had no choice but to go to the cops. I showed up a couple of hours later with two cops. Scott answered the door all smiles and “yes sir’s,” pretending nothing had happened. I wanted to slap that smirk right off his overly tanned face, but I bit back my impulse, ignoring him as I scrambled to gather my things. I stuffed a duffel bag full of clothes and grabbed my guitar and a stack of lyrics I’d written. Even in my haste I could tell many of my things were missing. I couldn’t locate the Bible my grandmother had given me, and Scott denied ever seeing it. At an autograph signing months later, it was returned to me by a fan who said he had purchased it.
As I was dragging my things out the front door, I heard a mewing sound coming from the kitchen and stopped to crane my neck for a better view. There in the center of the floor was a tiny white Persian kitten. Scott swatted at it for peeing on the floor and referred to the adorable ball of fur as “Rat,” announcing that he’d named it after me. I headed through the door. I’d had enough.
“Hey!” he snapped. “Don’t forget your cat!”
He threw the little creature at me.
“It’s your problem now.” He turned. “Happy fucking birthday, bitch.”
37
Dancing in the Dark
I spent the next few days living out of a suitcase and talking long-distance to my Baltimore Boy. The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel became my hideout as I searched for new digs for Brook and me to move into together. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to live, but I was positive I wanted to be as far from Woodland Hills and Scott as I could get. Thankfully, I had some money to work with. I’d earned a decent salary for Cry-Baby, and although Scott had helped himself to some of it, I managed to hold on to what was left.
I pounded the pavement apartment hunting in the Hollywood and North Hollywood area, finally settling on a rather boring, sterile-looking town house that overlooked the 101 freeway. It was new, clean, safe, and the price was right. Screw the freeway—I was out of time. Brook was supposed to arrive in two days. I hoped he wouldn’t hate it. Oh, what the heck—the freeway can be our ocean.
God, I missed him.
I signed the lease and then stopped off at my agent’s office to show my face. I wanted to make sure he knew I was back in town and ready to work. Sitting in his office, we chatted about where I wanted to go in the next phase of my career, and I stressed how much I wanted to do television and avoid exploitation films. He nodded in agreement but offered no further comment, changing the subject instead. He asked about the Waters film, wanting to know all about the shoot. I gave him the rundown but kept the feds and my affair with Brook to myself, saying only that I’d decided to split with Scott.
I left Gerler’s office unsure of how seriously he took my desire to star in more serious projects. Over the next few days, he reminded me several times that I could be working right now if I would just appreciate the offers before me. It was hard to stick to my guns at a time when I had little going for me. I doubted myself constantly. Maybe Gerler was right. Maybe Cry-Baby was the biggest film I’d ever do. Maybe I should be grateful to star in B movies, count my blessings, and call it a day. But I couldn’t. I wanted something more. I just had to go for it.
It was an uphill battle. I encountered many obstacles during that period of time, self-righteous casting directors, conservative production companies, and people who flat-out refused to grant me an audition. It was maddening to be judged by people who had no idea who I really was or what I stood for. I wasn’t sure I had the guts to stay in the game.
The constant rejection and general meanness took its toll. I nearly gave up a dozen times and I honestly don’t know what kept me going. I wondered if I’d ever be allowed to star as a series regular on television or find myself in an A movie. I had my doubts. But I needed to know I’d given it my all, and even if I ultimately failed, I would not quit. I was willing to struggle for the career and the life I wanted.
Brook hated Los Angeles the moment his combat boots hit the ground. “Everyone is so pretty here,” he grumbled, chain-smoking Merit cigarettes, “even the straight guys shave their legs.” He was an East Coast boy and sunny L.A. made him feel like a “fat, sloppy dirtball.” But as much as he hated it, he said he loved me. And he stayed. We were like peas and carrots, always together.
Brook and I settled into our new life together, spending our days hunting for work and our nights cooking meals and sharing the secrets of our lives. He landed a job working for New Line Cinema doing props on a movie called Book of Love. It was his first job as a Hollywood prop master, and as cool as Brook always acted, I could see the excitement bursting in his walk and in his voice when he called his mother to give her the news. I was very proud of him. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
Albert Sanchez. Copyright Divine Entertainment
Within days I could say the same as I booked a job as a ditsy dental hygienist on the television sitcom Married With Children. Brook and I bought a bottle of champagne and danced in the darkness of our living room to celebrate. The headlights of the big rigs that streamed by on the freeway below provided us with urban candlelight. Life was good.
The following Monday I began work on Married With Children. I’d never done a sitcom before and I discovered how different work schedules were for half-hour sitcoms, hour dramas, and feature films. The show ran like a well-oiled machine. The cast seemed to effortlessly nail their lines and hit their marks. I was in awe and wanted to learn their technique.
Monday through Wednesday were prep days. We did table-reads, wardrobe fittings, and dealt with dialogu
e changes. We reported to the Hollywood stage about 8 A.M. and finished by lunchtime. On Thursday we rehearsed in front of the cameras, and Friday was the shoot.
We performed before a live audience twice on Friday, once in the afternoon, then again at about six in the evening. The rush of performing live was a real high. I loved it. The cast members of Married With Children were all seasoned pros and I learned a lot about comedy just sitting in the read-throughs, watching them work. They had a rhythm when they acted. A lightbulb went off in my head: comedy was all about rhythm! It may seem obvious, but that realization changed the way I attacked my role.
Christina Applegate in particular fascinated me. I could relate to her. We were about the same age but she was light-years ahead of me professionally. She was about eighteen at the time and had a quiet confidence about her. When the camera hit her, she was a ball of energy. Whip smart, dead sexy, with incredible timing. I liked her. Over the next few years I guest-starred on Married With Children several times, and Christina and I became good friends. I struggled with booking acting jobs; she struggled with having a life outside her acting job.
38
Press Junk
Cry-Baby premiered in Baltimore. Brook and I were flown in, compliments of Imagine Films, to participate in the press junket. I felt like royalty as we arrived in a stretch limo at the best hotel in town. The red carpet literally rolled out to welcome us. The lobby was grand. Our room was filled with flowers and gift baskets. A chandelier hung above the Jacuzzi. The marble hallway offered a private, fully stocked bar, and Brook and I laughed at the outrageous display of wealth, shocked to be treated like movie stars.
We called Brook’s mom and told her she had to see this, and the whole gang turned up an hour later, with John Waters in tow. We hung out in our room, swapping stories. The junket was weighing heavily on John’s mind. He warned me I’d better be prepared to answer questions about my past. Oh no! Again?! Why? Hadn’t I done enough interviews over the past four years? I’d spoken to Hard Copy, A Current Affair, Entertainment Tonight, dozens of local news stations, magazines, newspapers. What was left to say? How many times do I have to relive this?
I’d naively thought I’d already answered “those” questions.
John sighed deeply. “Honey,” he said, “you’ll be answering those questions as long as you live.”
That statement knocked the wind out of my sails. Reality suddenly awakened me from the fantasy movie star world I’d walked into, but as I looked around the room, seeing Brook’s family there, I felt comforted. No matter what anyone said, pornography was my past. Not my present. Not my future. It was my past, and I could deal with that.
I wouldn’t crumble.
I woke up at seven the next morning and declined Imagine’s offer of a makeup artist. I can paint my face better than anyone, I thought. Besides, I wanted a moment of quiet before the press onslaught. As Brook slept soundly down the hall I headed for the “greenroom,” the hospitality suite for the talent. By the time I got there it was packed with the Cry-Baby gang, roaring with the excited chatter of old friends reconnecting. We headed down the hallway ready to meet the press. There were eight rooms filled with press people from all over the country. I had never seen anything like it. The cast was split up and sent in different directions to give interviews. It was a feeding frenzy.
I was nervous as I entered the first room. The public relations person from Imagine assured me that I could refuse to answer any question I didn’t like. I just looked at her. The thought had never occurred to me! I’d always felt the need to explain myself, somehow wanting to make people understand that I wasn’t really all bad.
I fed myself to the wolves, answering every question but not always seriously. I found myself snapping back when insulted, cringing at certain outrageous comments about my porn past, and still naively believing that my new work would speak for itself. I was embarrassed to be asked questions like What’s the difference between porn movies and mainstream movies? Did you enjoy making porn movies? How many films did you really make? I’d been answering those questions for years, but I’d never had to do it in front of fellow actors. It was humiliating to be put on the spot like that. I hated that it still got to me, but I couldn’t resist defending my life. I was a sucker.
The cast of Cry-Baby with John Waters.
Copyright Greg Gorman
As the day wore on, I became more and more irritated that no one cared about my work in Cry-Baby. Try as I might to throw in comments about working with John and the others, the press only wanted to hear about my porn days. It was clear that I was being exploited for an easy headline. Yet I felt that if I stopped the interviews, Imagine Films would think less of me, and I wanted to prove I could hold my own. I wished I could turn back time. I would have given anything to erase the XXX from my forehead.
On the crisp spring evening of March 15, 1990, a long line of cars crept one by one toward the Senator Theater for the world premiere of Cry-Baby. Brook and I shared a glass of champagne while peering at the crowd of fans and reporters from the safety of our limousine. As the car crept slowly forward, we downed our drinks, hands sweaty with anticipation. Brook was no stranger to the press, having grown up with the Waters clan in Baltimore and sharing many a photo op with his godfather, Divine.
My deep purple dress clung to my body as I exited the limo, flashbulbs blinding me. Brook and I walked the red carpet hand in hand. I met Pat’s eyes as she watched her son and me greet the media. She gave me the thumbs-up and I smiled back, feeling like I belonged on the red carpet and knowing that I had backup nearby. I laughed at the frozen smile of my petrified boyfriend, squeezing his hand to bring him out of his trance.
The film was met with screams of approval from the crowd, but I don’t remember seeing the movie at the premiere. My body was in the theater; I was not. The adrenaline pumped through my veins as I sat gawking at my name on the huge movie screen. I squirmed in my seat, uncomfortable to see my giant face looking down at me. I was antsy. Waters must have felt the same way because I saw him sneak out for a cigarette a couple of times.
I spent the rest of the evening accepting congratulations from strangers at the after-party. We mingled with journalists and fans. The cast signed autographs most of the evening, and the next day the Baltimore Sun’s headline read “Not a Tear at ‘Cry-Baby,’” featuring a color photo of John, Johnny, Patricia Hearst, and me.
Brook and I headed over to John’s house, which was located in a beautiful area of Baltimore. He owned a gorgeous three-story mansion not far from the university. John laughed that with all the press that had come out over the weekend, he’d been woken up twice by cars full of college kids screaming “Traci Lords!” in front of his house.
“I guess they think I have you locked up in the attic,” he said.
He was in a fabulous mood, happy with the response to the film and telling us to keep our fingers crossed. He was anxious to hear the weekend’s box office receipts.
We made our rounds, visiting friends of Brook’s and hanging out with his grandma Grace. She was still all aflutter about the fabulous green lamé gown she’d worn to the Cry-Baby premiere. I loved her. She was still every bit a diva.
We spent our last night in town with Brook’s family enjoying an incredible meal prepared by his father, Chucky. After dinner we all piled onto their massive sleigh bed to watch CNN. We were like little kids lying at the foot of the bed. Brook, his sister, and I gossiped about Johnny Depp’s new girlfriend, Winona Ryder, who had been unnerved by our gang at the premiere, not sure what to make of us. I was glad I wasn’t the new girl anymore. I was happier than I’d ever been in my life and completely at ease in this family of oddballs.
39
Film Misses and the Mrs.
Cry-Baby was only a moderate box office success. It made its money back, but by industry standards it was a bomb, which was a huge disappointment for all of us. But it was hardly a loss for me. I was one step closer to mainstream credibility.
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My picture appeared in newspapers and magazines all over the world, and while the press hadn’t hurt my career, it certainly hurt my ego. I discovered that few people actually read the articles accompanying the photos and was horrified to realize many people still thought—and would continue to think—of me as a porn girl. Is that why I was asked the same old questions over and over again? Weren’t they bored with the subject yet? Was it impossible to change public opinion?
Where do I go from here?
The studios weren’t courting me, and while small independent houses had made a few offers, most of them were for poorly written exploitation films. So I continued building my résumé by choosing the best of what I was offered.
I accepted a role for an action movie called A Time to Die, opting to shoot people rather than perform the required nudity of a Roger Corman film. It turns out I was the perfect action hero. I had an edge, loved the stunt work, and much to my surprise, I could handle a gun.
Slowly, I was climbing the ladder and staying true to my two rules: Make every film better than the last, and keep my clothes on.
One afternoon I came home late from filming. The walls of our house were vibrating with the wailing guitar of our neighbor, Rikki Rocket of the band Poison. He was rehearsing songs for a new album, and “Unskinny Bop” blared over and over as I headed for the shower. Stepping out of the bathroom, I noticed a trail of rose petals leading from the door down the stairs. I wrapped myself in a towel and followed the trail, wondering what was going on.
As I walked into the living room downstairs, I heard Chet Baker playing softly in the background. Brook stood staring out the window at the cars rushing by on the freeway. He was wearing a black suit, and he was shaking.
“Is something wrong?”
